


Music and Ink

by Yoshishisha



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, Painting, Platonic at first, Q is thirsty, Thirsty for Bond's everything, Touching, UST, that will not be resolved in this story, then with intent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9495662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoshishisha/pseuds/Yoshishisha
Summary: Contrary to all the rumors about him, Q does not solely live and breathe coding. He also loves to paint in order to relax his mind. However, he finds himself facing a woeful lack of an appropriate surface to paint on. Bond offers to help.Or alternatively: Five times Q wanted to paint on Bond, and one time Bond wanted to paint on Q.





	1. Searching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for Only_1_Truth whose fics are absolutely fantastic in their plot and characterization alike, and whose work you should totally read because it's awesome! It also turns out her art is as fantastic as her writing, because she's responsible for the gorgeous cover of this story (which was also the inspiration for it). To Truth: I'm sorry this is late, and I hope you enjoy what I've cooked up for you :D

Art: Music and Ink, by Only_1_Truth

 

Q most probably wasn’t aware of the first time it happened. The first time Bond watched him paint. After all, for all that 007 behaved like a mildly irritating pest whenever he showed up in Q-branch, striding in and catching everyone’s attention with that larger than life presence of his, he was nothing less than a double-o agent. For all Q knew, he could’ve been observed for weeks, if not months prior to him finding out about it. And it would be just like Bond to casually reveal himself in an attempt to unsettle him.

The truth was that contrary to all the rumors about him, Q did not solely live and breathe coding. Oh, he loved computers, make no mistakes about that, but there were some moments in his life where he simply needed to breathe and forget. There were times when he didn’t want to think, when he couldn’t take delight in the usual challenges and puzzles to be found in coding. There were moments when he didn’t feel up to pushing the limits of engineering and giving life to new ideas.

There were moments when he just wanted to breathe, let himself be carried away by the automatic motions of his body, and not be cross with the final result he was faced with once he was done.

Painting offered him all of that and more.

However, painting also offered him a distinct disadvantage. It took material, and he loathed for it all to go to waste. Q was a tidy person by nature; even in the chaos of his lab, a certain order could be found if one had the eye necessary to find it. Painting was by its very definition very untidy. He’d had a mess to contend with the first few times he’d used it as an outlet. A simple sheet of paper wasn’t nearly big enough to serve as Q’s outlet, and his brief foray with the walls left him with a lifetime of regret at the mess left behind.

What Q desired was a fresh canvas every time he needed to paint. The walls had been a disaster because he couldn’t simply repaint over his previous piece without first erasing the previous one under a layer of white (which was such a bore it almost put Q off the whole business). Q neither needed nor desired to keep his pieces forever. When he’d tried using actual canvases to paint, it had been almost perfect: he could paint however he wanted, and simply take a blank canvas the next time he needed to!

His only problem arose as he accumulated the canvases, loath to actually throw them away. They took up an annoyingly large amount of space in his place, space he could use instead for his prototypes and computers. Q could probably have found a harmonious way to solve his problem should it have been truly necessary, but truth was: he didn’t even want to keep the canvases! For all he cared, they could simply disappear in the void single socks eventually found their way into, and he wouldn’t be any sadder for it! However, he did loath waste, and thus couldn’t bring himself to throw his canvases away. Furthermore, he poured a lot of himself into his art, and it seemed to him like a stranger could see into his soul if they stared at one of his pieces long enough. Thus, he could not abide to sell or give them away either

What a dilemma…

* * *

“You’re fighting for a woman who doesn’t even love you,” Bond said, eyes boring into the eyes of his target’s current lover. The words themselves were merciless, but the delivery coupled with the last few days’ efforts to become his confidant had seemingly paid off, as the man numbly accepted the glass of alcohol the agent had ordered.

Q refrained from groaning out loud at the scene that unfolded in front of him. For all that overseeing Bond’s missions could sometimes emulate the best action movies (if one could dissociate from the fact that the people getting shot were very real and probably dying), in times like these, Q felt as though he was watching a very sappy film. Hearing a gasp from one of his minions behind him, the Quartermaster turned back to the main screen to see that the man seemed to have broken down crying in Bond’s arms.

Sighing, he warned his branch. “Please try to remain professional and remember that we are overseeing this mission, not watching it for its plot and dramatic value.”

Properly chastised, Q’s staff lowered their gazes back to their own screen, which let their boss return to his own work of overseeing Bond’s missions. The agent and his target’s lover (Edmund Vögel, if Q wasn’t mistaken) were now leaving the bar, Bond acting as a crutch for the mildly inebriated Vögel. Anticipating a possible problem, Q turned on his mic to relay the information. “A team has been sent to your lodgings in order to ensure there is nothing compromising to be found. You can bring Mr Vögel to your apartment, should you desire to do so. I imagine he would rather prefer your presence to his lonely house at the moment, since it seems his partner will once again be unable to return until early afternoon tomorrow.”

Bond must have caught the teasing tone in Q’s voice, as he chuckled lightly and murmured “Aren’t you a delight?” ostensibly in response to his companion’s comment.

“We both know I’m your favourite,” the Quartermaster answered wryly. “I’m the voice in your ear in the middle of your lonely missions.”

“Let’s bring this to my place,” Bond told Vögel as he hailed a cab. “It’s not too far from here, and I reckon the food there will be better than the one here.”

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself; I’m sure I can get home on my own,” Vögel attempted to protest. Had Q been able to communicate with him, he could have told the man what a fruitless endeavour it was to attempt to dissuade Bond from one of his hare-brained ideas.

“No worries,” Bond laughed as they entered the car. “I'll even quip on the sofa, if that makes you more comfortable.”

Q didn't need to see Vögel's considering look to know that the man had already fallen for the agent's charm. "I don't think that'll be necessary," Q heard the man say slowly. "Not if the bed is big enough for two..."

Q  spent the rest of his shift admiring the broad expanse of Bond’s back through the only camera present in the agent's room. And he yearned to explore it himself without the lens of a camera to run interference someday


	2. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q runs out of canvases, and Bond invites himself in his home

One interesting thing about Bond was that he didn’t ask for anything. Ever. Anything he ever got was because it was his due, whether or not he’d demanded it before hand.

And the man behaved like that with literally anything he was ever handed. When Q handed Bond the latest gadgets Q-Branch had cooked up for its agents, the man simply took them without a word of thanks, as though they were his due. When he later brought back an unrecognizable smoking mess of metal, he didn’t apologize for the wasted work and money; he simply smirked and strolled back out of Q-branch like the entire place belonged to him.

Therefore, it stood to reason that Bond wouldn’t be asking after Q’s hobbies like a regular human being. It stood to reason that the agent would take an arbitrary decision about his quartermaster’s free time without actually consulting Q. That, however, did not at all explain why Q’s latest painting binge was interrupted by James bloody Bond’s quiet tones behind him, especially since it was 1 in the bloody morning and Q knew he’d locked his door and activated his numerous security systems.

“That’s your last canvas, and I don’t believe you’re anywhere near done with your urge to paint.”

Q startled, dragging his brush further than he’d wanted across the canvas, and staring dispassionately at the mess he’d left behind even as he automatically put his brush down to soak in the jar full of water at his side. He didn’t even realise Bond had stripped himself out of his shirt until his canvas was removed, and naked skin filled his view.

The first time Q painted on Bond’s back, he was too sidetracked to register much of anything.

Bond was entirely too tense when Q put his brush to the agent's skin. In fact, Q might even go as far as to say that Bond had entered the quartermaster's domain in a manner reminiscent of a soldier entering a suspected warring zone, silently and only letting his presence known once he’d taken a quick measure of the place. Q chuckled under his breath at the comparison: that was pretty much how the boffin himself treated all his interactions with the agent. 

"Are you even doing anything or do you just like the feel of my skin?"came Bond's voice, interrupting Q's musings. He hadn't even realised he'd kept up his aimless motions over Bond's back, but now that he was paying attention, he could see that the agent's body had lost the slightest bit of tension.

"A good canvas doesn't talk, Bond," Q replied instead of pointing out that detail."With such a shoddy impersonation, one would think you quite a lousy spy."

Q grinned at the laughter his reply elicited from Bond. "Keep laughing, you lousy spy," he muttered as he lifted his brush from the agent's back to dip it into a jar filled with blue paint.

He watched in an almost hypnotic state as goose bumps rose on Bond's skin when the brush made contact. Breathing out deeply with his first stroke, Q lost himself to the movement, his brush only leaving the broad expanse of Bond's back to be washed or dipped again.

Slowly, as the colours spread and blended on the skin, Q realised that the constant shift of rippling muscle had slowed to an almost imperceptible shift, testament to the agent's state of relaxation. Q could have spent the entire night like this, staring as the deadly agent let go of his tension to become almost like putty in Q’s hands.  The silence of the room meant that every stray sound was audible, whether that was the soft gliding of Q’s brush, or the calm rhythm of both their respirations.

The Quartermaster couldn't stop a fond smile from spreading across his lips when he belatedly noticed that his and the agent's breathing rhythm had slowed down to a synchronized state. It was the first time Q had seen Bond in such a relaxed state - almost vulnerable, if one could ever consider the bane of his working life to be as such. Q almost wished Bond had come at a moment when he’d been more awake, so he could properly appreciate the view and the rarity of what was happening. But then again, the agent had properly chosen his moment to avoid that exact situation.

And if Q enjoyed the close contact with Bond more than he should, if he sometimes wished his hands could caress Bond's skin without the barrier of his brush or the paint, if he longed to feel the play of muscles under his aimless fingers and follow the trail with his tongue, then...

No one but him needed to know...


	3. Irritation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond is an arse, and Q will not kill him, no matter how tempting it might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!! Thanks for the lovely comments Truth, and thanks for the awesome reception everyone!!! Here's the third chapter for you, and the rest should come out in the next few days. Thanks for your patience!

There were a second, a third, a fourth time, and each brought Q more joy and rest than he’d previously anticipated. This was bad. Very bad.

Q was not an idiot. Others often applied upon him the label of genius, and Q happily joined them in doing so, on good days. Not only was he a wiz as far as computers and electronic devices went, but he also had a quick mind, capable of logic and coming up with novel solutions when faced with unprecedented problems. His quick solving abilities had served him well in the past, both in situations of a technical and social nature. And currently, the full brunt of them was focused on James bloody Bond, the current bane of his life.

“Agent Bond reporting back, sir,” one of his affectionately termed minions told him, pulling the Quartermaster out of his musings.  “For once, he seems to have brought something back.”

Q glared at zem, not oblivious to the obvious mirth present in zir voice, and accentuated by a mocking smile. “Please show yourself out, Khan, and don’t bother coming back,” he sniped back irritably. “And feel free to bring Bond with you.”

Khan obviously disregarded the last part of that sentence, as evidenced by Bond’s entrance not half a minute after ze had left. “Your underlings seem oddly happy today; did they finally solve the problem with those laser swords of theirs?”

“Lightsabers, Bond, and no they –” Q corrected automatically, before stopping short as he saw what the agent had thrown on his desk. “Is that the USB drive I handed you before the mission.”His voice was low, rendered dangerous with the acidic vitriol he was refraining from spitting out. Bond must have felt it as well, for the man didn’t come closer.

Q reached out to take the mangled piece of equipment, evaluating the damage: the shape of it was barely recognisable, what with one end of it having been flattened into a pancake, and the other… The brunet pulled off the cap to evaluate the damage at the end that was supposed to fit into the computer.

“Did you melt it off?” he breathed incredulously, turning the device in his hands. The damage did not change. “How did you melt it off? We had it tested to withstand temperatures of a thousand Kelvin; did you drop it in a bloody volcano?”

Q raised his head to hurl further abuse at the agent, only to realise that the man had wisely slunk off in the middle of his rant. Taking a deep hissing breath as he tried to rein in his temper, the Quartermaster set to work at attempting to extract the data despite its carrier’s sorry state.

He was going to kill Bond if the man showed up in his flat that night.

* * *

 As it turned out, Q did not kill Bond when he found the man in his living room that night. However, the urge returned with a vengeance at the agent’s refusal to settle down as usual.

“Can’t you remain still for five seconds of your life?”

“Easy for you to say when you’re not the one with uncomfortable fluids flowing down your back,” Bond grouched with another roll of his shoulders, sending Q's brush astray for the 6th time that night.

“No, you know what?” Q set his brush aside, not even bothering to ensure none of the paint dripped down to the floor. “This is evidently not working; we’re done for the day!”

As he backed off from the painting that was sure to feature among some of his worst, Q picked up the small bowls of colours and set off towards the adjacent room. He was not pleased. At all.

Setting the paint into the sink, the hacker briefly contemplated going back to the studio in order to pick up his remaining material. He quickly set the idea aside though, as he remembered Bond’s currently irritated disposition. Were he to go back there, the situation was sure to end up in a shouting match, and Q had had enough of those to last him through a lifetime.

Relaxing mood now shot to hell by what should have been nothing more than a minor setback, Q set to work and attempted to figure out a way to keep his barely used paint in good enough condition to possibly reuse it later. He raised his head no more than a minute later though, when he heard the door open quietly.

Bond was there, and Q could somehow feel his contrite demeanour, for all that it didn’t transpire into his expression or body language. The agent set the remaining pots of paint on the adjacent table, enabling Q to see that the still wet paint was dripping down the other’s back and had already begun forming a blue stain on the edge of his pants. Q sighed. He did really have to be the one to think of everything, didn’t he? He grabbed a clean towel from the shelf in the back of the room and threw it in Bond’s direction, trusting the agent to catch it without much trouble.

“Tie it around your waist,” he said in answer to the bewildered look that greeted him when he turned. “My apartment is clean, and I don’t want to see any more stains; you wouldn’t believe how hard dry paint is to clean out of rugs.”

Bond silently obeyed him, and Q frowned, almost disappointed at the lack of response. The agent was being uncharacteristically silent, and not in the way he usually was during their sessions. That silence was usually relaxed, a comfortable sort of quiet where both men found their tranquility.

This silence, on the other hand, was unsettling. It wasn’t quite as bad as the one that transpired over their com lines when Bond was on a mission, no. It lacked the dangerous anticipation, the muscles coiled for action, the laser focus… However, it was definitely on the uneasy end of the spectrum, as far as Q could understand from Bond’s frustratingly closed body language.

  



End file.
